Picture  Values  From  An 
Artist's  Viewpoint 

By  ROB  WAGNER 


' 


Picture  Values  From  An 
Artist's  Viewpoint 


ROB  WAGNER 


One  of  a  Series  of  Lectures  Especially 

Prepared  for  Student-Members 

of  'The  Palmer  Plan 


PALMER  PHOTOPLAY  CORPORATION 

DEPARTMENT  OF  EDUCATION 
LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA 


Ctpjright,l<)2O,  Palmir  Phttoflaj  Corftration,  Lot  Angeles,  California 
Ml  Rights  Ritervtd 


ROB  WAGNER 

MILLIONS  of  readers  of  the  Saturday  Evening  Post  are 
familiar  with  the  series  of  articles  dealing  with  motion 
picture  studios  and  the  making  of  photoplays  that  have 
come  from  Rob  Wagner's  pen  from  time  to  time.  In  gathering 
material  for  this  work  Mr.  Wagner  has  become  probably  the 
most  completely  and  variously  informed  man  on  the  subject  in 
the  world.  Few  of  his  readers  realize,  however,  the  technical 
and  scholastic  training  with  which  he  was  equipped  when  he 
first  became  interested  in  the  screen.  Graduating  from  the 
University  of  Michigan,  as  an  engineer,  in  the  class  of  1895, 
Mr.  Wagner  was  successively  an  illustrator  on  the  Detroit  Free 
Press,  Art  Editor  of  the  New  York  Criterion,  contributor  to 
many  magazines,  chief  illustrator  for  Encyclopedia  Britannica 
in  London  and  illustrator  for  Historian's  History  of  the  World, 
during  which  term  of  service  he  made  over  two  thousand  illus- 
trations. At  the  age  of  thirty-two  Mr.  Wagner  went  to  Paris  to 
study  at  the  Julian  Academy  and  Academie  Delecluse.  Taking 
up  the  work  of  portrait  painting,  he  won  medals  at  two  world 
fairs,  his  portrait  of  Stewart  Edward  White  being  medaled  at 
'San  Francisco.  In  1915  Mr.  Wagner  began  his  series  of  articles 
for  the  Post,  nearly  forty  of  which  have  appeared  since.  His 
book  entitled  "Film  Folk"  (Century  Co.)  has  had  a  wide  circula- 
tion. Recently  Mr.  Wagner  has  started  'writing  for  the  screen, 
and  motion  picture  theatre-goers  will  see  many  productions  from 
his  pen  in  the  future.  The  following  lecture  deals  with  a  subject 
that  is  of  vital  importance  to  all  photoplaywrights,  for,  after  all, 
the  photoplay  is  a  picture,  and  Mr.  Wagner's  views,  backed  by 
his  training  as  an  artist,  possess  peculiar  value. 


HEN  the  moving  picture  began,  the  marvel 
was  not  the  picture,  but  the  movement. 
Thus,  in  the  early  days,  movement  was  the 
thing  desired,  and  the  more  violent  the 
movement  the  greater  the  triumph.  In 
fact,  this  point  was  stressed  to  the  extent  of 
having  curtains  blow  about  and  papers  fly 
in  all  directions  even  in  interior  sets.  Otherwise  how 
should  the  spectator  know  this  was  a  moving  picture? 
After,  however,  the  people  became  adjusted  to  the 
fact  that  a  new  photographical  phenomenon  had  arrived 
the  possibilities  of  trick  photography  were  so  alluring 
that  the  first  directors  and  cameramen  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  make  this  the  major  expression — back- 
action,  dissolves,  double  exposures  and  all  the  stunts  of 
the  laboratory  that  cause  eyes  to  pop  out  and  nickels  to 
drop  in.  These  tricks,  of  course,  were  a  mechanical 
triumph  and  had  little  to  do  with  art.  The  cradle  of  the 
photodrama  was  entirely  mechanistic  and  the  nurse  maids 
mostly  mechanics. 

The  Dawn  of  Screen  Drama. 

Then  came  the  great  discovery  that  plays  could  be 
acted.  Fire-runs,  cowboys  and  explosions  were  interest- 
ing enough,  but  why  not  make  them  the  thrills  of  a  story? 
Needless  to  say,  the  character  of  these  films  was  melo- 
dramatic, and  during  this  brilliant  period  of  the  photo- 
drama  tumult  and  cataclysm  held  forth,  the  plot  and  the 
thrill — principally  the  thrill — holding  first  place  in  the 
producer's  mind. 

Thus  it  was  that  actors  were  called  upon,  and  where 
should  actors  come  from  except  the  stage?  And  the 
technique  contributed  by  this  dramatic  ravishment  was 
of  cpurse  that  of  the  playhouse.  What  little  manufac- 

[3] 


tured  scenery  that  was  found  necessary  was  made  by 
scenic  artists,  which  interested  as  a  novelty,  but  was  soon 
discovered  to  be  totally  inadequate  to  the  purpose.  The 
stage  has  always  been  regarded  as  an  artifice,  yet  the 
public  mind  looked  upon  moving  pictures  as  realism. 
And  so,  though  vibrant  cloth  scenery  was  acceptable  in 
the  playhouse,  it  outraged  the  sense  of  propriety  in  a 
realistic  presentation. 

Stage  and  Screen  Technique. 

There  are  several  reasons  why  stage  technique  could 
not  be  translated  to  the  screen:  One  was  a  matter  of 
lighting  and  another  of  perspective.  On  the  stage  one 
may  set  a  drop  representing  a  woodland  scene,  and,  with 
the  cunning  manipulation  of  lights,  carry  it  from  day- 
break to  twilight  with  wondrous  effect;  whereas  on  the 
studio  set,  in  the  fierce  white  light  of  day,  distant  moun- 
tains painted  on  the  canvas  look  only  like  little  mountains 
close  by — atmospheric  perspective  was  utterly  lacking. 

Fundamentally,  the  stage  and  screen  angles  are  abso- 
lutely reversed.  In  the  playhouse  the  farther  the  actor 
comes  down  stage  the  wider  it  becomes,  until,  in  the 
immensity  of  the  proscenium  arch,  the  contrast  with  his 
environment  is  tremendously  exaggerated.  The  limita- 
tions of  the  playhouse  also  give  rise  to  the  necessity  of 
painting  interior  sets  in  exaggerated  perspective,  and  the 
men  who  had  been  trained  in  this  kind  of  scenic  repre- 
sentation found  it  difficult  to  adjust  themselves  to  the 
building  of  sets  in  normal  architectural  proportions.  The 
stage  angle  in  the  playhouse  might  be  likened  to  a  fan 
whose  handle  is  way  up  stage  and  the  ribs  of  which  point 
toward  the  eyes  of  a  thousand  spectators  distributed 
around  the  arc  of  a  circular  balcony.  In  the  camera,  how- 
ever, this  angle  is  reversed.  There  is  but  a  single  eye  to 
behold  the  picture,  and  the  handle  of  the  fan  would  be  in 
the  lens  with  the  ribs  pointing  out  from  it  within  an  angle 
of  about  twenty  or  thirty  degrees.  Thus  it  is,  as  the  per- 
former comes  forward,  his  stage  becomes  narrower,  uetil, 

[4] 


in  the  semi-closeups,  instead  of  having  the  full  width  of 
the  proscenium  he  must  confine  his  action  to  perhaps  eight 
or  ten  feet.  And  so  it  gradually  was  borne  in  upon  the 
producers  that  the  moving  picture  was  not  simply  a  trans- 
lation of  stage  craft  to  the  screen,  and  that  the  words 
"canned  drama"  were  a  misnomer. 

Birth  of  a  New  Art. 

In  the  whole  history  of  mankind  we  have  no  record 
of  the  birth  of  a  new  art.  Music,  sculpture,  painting, 
dancing,  dramatics  and  architecture  are  as  old  as  man. 
So  it  was  natural  that  the  pioneers  could  not  disassociate 
the  moving  picture  from  the  other  arts.  They  tried  to 
translate  the  stage  in  which  the  spoken  word  is  quite  as 
essential  as  the  action,  and  found  that  pantomimically 
the  motion  picture  was  inadequate  to  its  translation. 
Therefore  their  next  step  was  to  invade  literature;  at 
least  the  printed  story  could  be  visualized.  But  here 
again  it  was  found  that  this  new  expression  had  certain 
limitations  and  possibilities  that  did  not  inhere  in  the 
printed  word.  And  thus,  very  reluctantly  the  impressarios 
of  the  cinema  came  finally  to  the  understanding  that  a 
new  art  form  had  been  born,  borrowing  a  little  from  the 
other  arts,  but  going  directly  to  Nature  for  its  greatest 
possibilities. 

Photodrama  Fundamentally  Pictorial. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  in  the  first  experiments  the 
pictorial  aspects  of  the  cinema  were  woefully  neglected, 
trick  camera  work,  thrills  and  dramatic  punch  being  the 
major  considerations.  But  in  its  final  analysis  the  photo- 
drama  is  fundamentally  pictorial,  and  when  this  discovery 
was  made  the  cinema  came  into  its  own.  For  pictures 
are  the  symbols  of  a  universal  language  that  harks  back 
to  primitive  man.  For  this  reason  a  comedy  made  in 
Los  Angeles  is  understood  in  Tibet,  provided,  of  course, 
that  the  humor  is  universal  rather  than  local.  And  thus 
it  is  that  from  Timbuctoo  to  Terra  Haute,  from  Labrador 
to  New  South  Wales,  the  world  understands  and  laughs 

[5] 


at  the  classic  comedy  of  Chaplin.  With  the  realization 
that  the  picture  was  of  prime  importance,  producers  im- 
mediately set  out  to  fill  the  eye.  Great  spectacles  and 
gorgeous  sets  that  cost  fortunes  were  made  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  give  an  aesthetic  thrill  to  the  spectator. 
Artists  were  called  in,  technical  departments  established, 
and  the  pictorial  representation  of  the  photodrama  was 
stressed  in  a  manner  totally  unknown  to  the  early  pro- 
ducers. And  that  this  was  a  correct  conclusion  is  borne 
out  by  this  fact:  that  a  poor  story  beautifully  produced 
will  go  over  better  than  a  strong  story  that  outrages  the 
eye  in  its  presentation.  Therefore  to  the  scenario  writer, 
saturated  with  the  traditions  of  the  stage  and  the  technique 
of  the  short  story,  the  tremendous  importance  of  the  pic- 
tures must  be  understood.  In  writing  for  the  screen  one 
must  constantly  hold  before  his  mental  vision  the  visual- 
ized result.  And  it  is  therefore  quite  essential  that  in 
doing  so  the  scenarist  must  understand  the  possibilities 
and  limitations  of  screen  production.  Every  person  who 
has  played  with  amateur  photography  knows  how  much 
is  lost  in  great  perspectives.  The  reasons  are  stereoscopic 
and  need  not  concern  us  here,  but  the  fact  remains  that  a 
photographic  picture  of  great  distances,  howsoever  awe- 
inspiring  or  distinct  it  may  actually  appear  to  the  camera- 
man, is  almost  impossible  of  representation  on  the  silver 
sheet.  For  this  reason,  deep-sea  stuff  is  very  difficult  to 
film.  A  story  writer  can  carry  one  in  imagination  into  the 
illimitable  terrors  of  the  sea,  giving  one  a  thrill  of  expect- 
ancy in  catching  a  first  sight  of  a  pirate  ship  on  the  hori- 
zon ;  whereas,  on  the  screen,  the  distant  ship  will  appear 
"dinky,"  static  and  disappointing.  Storm  stuff  presents 
similar  inhibitions.  If  the  storm  is  real,  the  light  will  not 
be  strong  enough  to  shoot  the  picture.  Thus  it  is  that  sea 
stuff  is  usually  confined  to  intimate  scenes  on  shipboard.  / 
The  golf  links  offer  another  difficult  location,  for  here 
again  the  distances  are  too  great  to  become  either  pic- 
torially  or  dramatically  interesting.  Yet  it  is  amazing 
the  number  of  scenarios  that  come  in  in  which  dramatic 
episodes  take  place  over  the  whole  countryside.  The 

[6] 


possibilities  of  the  aeroplane  seem  dramatically  pregnant 
to  a  great  army  of  scenarists,  but  here  again  the  area  over 
which  the  episodes  take  place  is  too  large  for  pictorial 
comprehension.  The  weekly  news  bulletin  of  aeroplane 
maneuvers  ought  to  show  the  scenario  writer  how  really 
tame  the  performances  appear  in  the  absence  of  stereo- 
scopic perspective  and  the  dramatic  roar  of  the  engines. 

Appeal  to  Eye,  Not  Ear. 

It  might  be  well  at  this  point  to  call  attention  to  the 
dramatic  loss  where,  in  real  life,  the  collateral  arts  express 
a  major  motif.  If  it  were  possible  to  produce  pictures 
with  the  accompanying  sounds,  many  scenes  might  be 
saved.  But  even  though  it  were  desirable,  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  expect  these  in  small  suburban  houses. 
Thus,  scenes  requiring  music  as  an  essential  accompani- 
ment should  be  undertaken  with  the  understanding  that 
when  the  scene  is  projected  it  will  probably  miss  this 
necessary  "marriage  of  the  arts."  Scenes  representing 
quartets  or  individuals  singing  will  appear  flat  if  no  music 
accompanies  them,  and  may  get  a  laugh  where  a  tear  is 
expected.  The  same  applies  to  dancing.  Flashes  of 
dances  as  a  mere  gala  background  may  go  all  right  in 
limited  footage,  but  should  the  principal  character  be  a 
well-known  dancer,  her  art  will  suffer  in  translation  with- 
out the  collateral  use  of  timely  music.  This  is  best  seen 
where  the  attempt  has  been  made  to  reproduce  intimate 
pictures  of  clog  dancing. 

With  the  recognition  of  the  photodrama  as  a  distinct 
art,  the  world  has  happily  given  up  its  insistence  upon 
absolute  realism,  and  it  now  regards  the  photodrama  as 
a  purely  plastic  representation  rather  than  an  actual  real- 
ization. Thus  it  is  that  color  is  less  sought  after  now 
than  formerly,  and  the  ordinary  spectator  prefers  the 
simple  black  and  white  values  of  his  photoplay  represen- 
tation, and  no  more  misses  color  than  he  does  in  the 
tation,  and  no  more  misses  color  than  he  does  in  bronze 

[7] 


and  marble  statues.  Only  when  color  becomes  a  major 
motif,  such  as  a  representation  of  the  Indian  durbar  or  in 
botanical  subjects,  does  it  become  essential.  Therefore 
the  scenarist  must  visualize  his  finished  product  in  black 
and  white  color  vfelues,  and  not  stress  scenes  such  as  carni- 
vals and  f  antasmas  without  a  full  understanding  that  their 
representation  on  the  screen  will  be  more  or  less  disap- 
pointing. 

Limitations  to  Be  Observed. 

Another  point  often  overlooked  by  scenarists  who 
send  in  script  that  is  otherwise  acceptable  are  the  physical 
limitations  of  the  studio.  It  is  true  the  cinema  has  one 
great  advantage  over  the  stage.  It  can  take  the  spectator 
all  over  the  world  by  simply  cutting  to  the  various  scenes, 
and  in  this  joyous  discovery  many  writers  have  splashed 
in  with  abandon  that  is  no  doubt  possible  of  achievement, 
but  little  recognizing  the  terrific  expenditures  necessary. 
Scenarios  are  constantly  coming  in  in  which  the  charac- 
ters hop  from  the  North  Pole  to  the  Equator  and  several 
times  around  the  world.  But  besides  losing  unity  of  action 
the  filming  of  such  scenes  is  often  prohibitive.  Normal 
travel  is  of  course  permissible,  but  the  scenario  writer 
must  not  use  the  "magic  carpet"  to  a  point  that  renders  the 
filming  of  such  scenes  too  costly. 

It  is  also  well  to  remember  that  85  per  cent  of  the 
films  are  made  in  Los  Angeles,  where  snow  can  be  found 
for  only  a  few  months  in  the  year,  and  then  at  great  dis- 
tances. This  does  not  mean  that  snow  pictures  are  neces- 
sarily inhibited,  but  it  is  just  as  well  to  know  that  their 
cost  is  considerable,  and  if  the  locale  can  be  changed 
without  doing  violence  to  the  story,  it  is  safer  to  cast  them 
in  more  accessible  places.  Suppose,  for  instance,  that 
the  plot  is  the  strongest  factor  of  the  story  and  important 
action  takes  place  in  a  storm.  The  locale  of  the  plot  may 
often  with  perfect  propriety  be  transferred  from  a  bliz- 
zard to  winds,  sand  or  rain.  This,  in  fact,  is  what  happens 
to  many  stories  that  are  bought  by  the  studios,  the  authors 

[8] 


of  which  are  outraged  by  the  transition.  The  greatest 
difficulty  experienced  by  the  short-story  writers  in  sub- 
mitting their  efforts  to  the  screen  is  in  their  unfamiliarity 
with  cinema  construction.  They  do  not  seem  to  under- 
stand that  the  motion  picture  has  developed  a  technique, 
syntax  and  punctuation  peculiar  to  itself  and  found  in 
no  other  art.  And  it  is  most  important  that  the  scenarist 
should  be  familiar  with  these  factors  in  order  to  write 
intelligent  continuity.  In  the  early  days  screen  punctua- 
tion was  practically  unknown,  and  when  the  director  got 
started  on  his  story  he  did  not  know  how  to  interrupt  it 
or  stop  it;  with  the  result  that  the  action  became  cumu- 
lative, generally  ending  up  in  a  chase  or  a  cataclysmic 
stunt,  and  the  picture  finishing  with  a  lot  of  scratches 
and  blobs.  But  with  the  invention  of  the  fade-in,  dis- 
solves, cut-backs,  closeups,  the  iris  and  other  mechanical 
devices  a  definite  punctuation  evolved.  As  most  pictures 
open  with  an  iris,  let  us  first  discuss  this. 

The  Iris. 

On  the  stage,  when  a  play  begins  the  curtain  rises, 
first  disclosing  the  feet,  then  the  knees,  until  in  the  ascent 
the  whole  picture  is  left  visible.  When  the  scene  is  ended 
the  curtain  descends,  and  inversely  the  feet  are  the  last 
to  be  seen  by  the  audience.  But  by  the  use  of  the  iris  the 
screen  picture  opens  up  in  the  center  on  its  point  of  focal 
interest  and  in  ever-widening  concentric  circles,  until  the 
picture  is  seen  as  a  whole.  The  use  of  the  iris,  however, 
during  the  running  of  a  picture  serves  another  purpose. 
Here  we  see  the  scene  contract  in  concentric  circles  from 
the  outer  edges  until  finally  a  single  focal  point  is  left. 
This  often  has  a  decidedly  psychological  import;  for  in- 
stance, if  the  scene  irises  out  on  an  expression  or  "prop," 
such  as  a  letter  lying  on  the  desk  or  a  revolver  held  in  the 
hand  of  a  character,  the  spectator  realizes  that  this  focal 
point  had  been  emphasized  and  the  subject  will  be 
carried  over  into  another  scene.  Again,  when  the  curtain 
falls  upon  the  stage,  the  spectator  knows  that  the  action 
is  ended,  and  when  it  rises  on  a  new  scene  is  mentally 

[9] 


prepared  for  an  intervening  time  lapse.  The  irising  out 
and  irising  in  on  the  screen  produces  the  same  punctua- 
tion. More  common,  however,  than  the  iris  is  the  use 
of  the  fade-in  and  fade-out  where  the  picture  as  a  whole, 
beginning  from  a  black  opacity,  gradually  dissolves  into 
the  scene  as  a  whole.  And  when  a  picture  fades  out  and 
then  fades  into  another  scene,  the  same  time  lapse  is  insin- 
uated without  the  necessity  of  a  subtitle.  In  other  words, 
if  we  see  the  picture  fading  out  on  a  person  about  to 
retire  and  then  fade  in  on  the  same  person  arising,  the 
time  lapse  title,  "The  next  morning,"  is  redundant  and 
unnecessary.  The  difference  in  using  the  iris  and  the 
fade-out  for  final  periods  lies  only  in  the  fact  that  the 
iris  can  be  used  to  emphasize  a  point  that  the  director 
wishes  to  be  carried  over  mentally  into  the  subsequent 
action.  A  simple  cut  from  a  long  shot  to  a  closeup  and 
back  to  the  long  shot  without  fading,  irising  or  breaking 
with  titles  may  be  considered  as  practically  the  same  as 
commas  on  the  printed  page.  The  most  abused  punctua- 
tion is  no  doubt  the  unintelligent  use  of  the  closeup. 
Intrinsically,  this  particular  punctuation  parallels  the  use 
of  italics  or  capitalization  and  is  intended  for  emphasis. 
For  instance,  in  a  full  shot,  the  jvhole  set  is  registered  in 
the  spectator's  mind,  the  general  action  is  made  intelli- 
gible, and  when  the  picture  is  cut  to  a  closeup  of  two 
individuals  it  is  because  the  local  action  has  become  im- 
portant, but  as  the  spectator  has  had  the  whole  scene 
registered  in  his  mind  it  becomes  permissible  to  exclude 
these  from  the  field  of  vision  during  the  particular  dra- 
matic action  of  the  emphasized  characters.  On  the  stage 
this  is  accomplished  by  bringing  the  characters  forward 
or  spot-lighting  them.  But  the  closeup  of  the  cinema  is 
a  much  better  method  of  emphasis,  for,  besides  excluding 
all  extraneous  action  from  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  it  also 
magnifies  figures  so  that  even  the  expressions  upon  the 
faces  become  intelligible.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that 
those  who  have  been  attending  the  pictures  consecutively 
for  years  understand  the  punctuation  without  the  slightest 
mental  effort. 

[10] 


Picture  Possibilities. 

In  the  first  part  of  this  lecture  the  limitations  of  the 
films  were  pointed  out.  By  now  it  might  be  well  to 
emphasize  their  possibilities.  One  of  the  most  amazing 
contributions  that  the  art  of  the  cinema  has  made  is  in 
its  ability  to  visualize  psychic  manifestations,  the  sub- 
conscious mind  and  the  various  fantasmagoria.  In  this 
field  it  stands  pre-eminent  over  all  the  other  arts.  For 
instance,  on  the  stage,  when  retrospect  is  necessary,  one 
of  the  characters  must  tell  in  words  the  things  that  hap- 
pened previous  to  the  opening  of  the  drama,  leaving  it 
to  the  audience  to  visualize  them  in  its  many  diverse 
manners.  On  the  screen,  however,  if  the  character  for  a 
moment  wishes  to  conjure  up  a  vision  of  his  youth,  the 
picture  can  dissolve  into  a  vision  and  let  us  all  behold 
him  as  he  was  in  his  childhood.  Even  his  dreams  can 
thus  be  shown  and  thoughts  made  visible.  In  this  con- 
nection pictorial  subtitles  often  furnish,  psychologically, 
information  that  might  otherwise  have  to  be  shown  in 
action.  For  instance,  a  title  reading,  "John  was  late  for 
dinner,"  may  show  in  the  corner  a  stack  of  poker  chips, 
and  by  association  the  audience  realizes  what  delayed 
the  wicked  spouse. 

Useful  Examples. 

We  are  now  beginning  to  see  an  intelligent  develop- 
ment of  technique  and  punctuation  dealing  with  the  rep- 
resentation of  psychic  subjects.  For  instance,  we  observe 
the  objective  world  about  us  in  sharp  focus,  but  our 
dreams  are  vague  and  usually  out  of  focus.  Some  of  the 
more  alert  directors  are  beginning  to  show  the  dream 
stuff  in  soft  focus,  so  as  to  differentiate  it  from  the  world 
of  reality.  When  a  picture  showing  a  man  sitting  by  the 
fire  smoking  his  pipe  dissolves  into  his  dream;  during  the 
few  feet  of  transition  where  we  observe  a  lap  dissolve — 
or  one  picture  dissolving  into  another — we  have  the  elu- 
sive feeling  of  the  vision,  but  after  the  transition  into  the 
scene  of  his  dreams,  if  it  is  shown  in  hard  focus,  we  some- 
times have  to  pinch  ourselves  to  recall  the  fact  that  it  is 


not  reality,  but  only  a  dream.  If,  however,  the  whole 
scene  of  the  dream  is  shot  in  soft  focus,  we  are  aware 
throughout  its  presentation  that  the  scene  is  one  of  the 
imagination  only.  One  very  interesting  example  of  the 
use  of  soft  focus  in  recording  the  picture  of  the  sub  or 
semi-conscious  mind  occurred  in  a  scene  wherein  a  young 
woman  had  fainted.  By  a  clever  double  exposure  we  saw 
the  young  lady  lying  in  the  foreground  in  sharp  focus, 
while  her  surroundings  were  vague  and  indefinite.  As 
she  rose  to  her  knees  and  rubbed  her  eyes,  the  indistinct 
shapes  of  light  and  shadow  about  the  room  gradually 
took  on  form  until,  at  last,  when  consciousness  had  re- 
turned, she  saw  in  distinct  detail  the  chairs  and  windows, 
and  recognition  registered  in  her  face.  This  was  a  case 
where  the  audience  was  permitted  to  share  with  the  screen 
character  the  bewilderment  of  a  fainting  spell,  and  in 
no  other  art  form  could  this  phenomenon  have  been  vis- 
ualized. The  same  device  was  recently  used  in  a  picture 
where  the  husband  suffered  a  concussion  of  the  brain, 
and  when  the  crisis  passed  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
up  into  a  face  that  at  first  was  a  mere  blur,  but  gradually 
resolved  itself  into  the  features  of  his  wife.  A  closeup 
of  what  he  saw  was  permitted  the  spectators.  Another 
very  interesting  example  of  visualizing  pain  that  had  a 
curious  psychological  effect  upon  the  audience  happened 
in  a  propaganda  picture  wherein  an  Armenian  girl  was 
being  tortured.  She  had  been  crucified  and  her  captor 
began  beating  her  with  a  cat-o'-nine-tails,  but  as  each 
stroke  fell  upon  her  naked  body  the  picture  drew  out  of 
focus  with  each  blow,  until  finally  nothing  remained  of 
the  scene  but  a  blur,  which  had  the  effect  of  a  terrible 
picture  fading  out  through  tear-dimmed  eyes.  The  reason- 
that  these  possibilities  in  visualizing  the  unobjective  world 
have  been  stressed  is  because  herein  lie  possibilities  for 
the  scenarist  that  as  yet  have  been  merely  touched  upon. 
And  as  the  world  in  its  spiritual  sickness  has  become 
tremendously  interested  in  psychic  phenomenon  the  field 
offers  a  prodigious  opportunity  for  those  who  wish  to 
dramatize  the  spiritual  and  psychic  side  of  life. 

[12] 


Character  Development. 

It  is  in  the  picturization  of  character  development 
that  the  scenario  writer  must  give  his  most  thoughtful 
attention.  As  the  average  person  has  been  brought  up 
on  the  short  story  and  the  drama,  it  is  but  natural  that 
he  should  think  in  those  terms.  But  on  the  screen  char- 
acter must  be  shown  and  not  discussed.  One  well-known 
short-story  writer  wrote  a  most  indignant  letter  to  a  certain 
studio,  in  which  he  said :  "You  have  shown  on  the  screen 
a  scene  in  which  one  of  my  characters  enters  a  drawing 
room  and  deliberately  kicks  a  dog  lying  before  the  fire- 
place. No  such  episode  was  in  my  story."  "No,"  the 
scenario  editor  replied,  "no  such  episode  was  in  your  story, 
for  which  you  should  express  regret  rather  than  indigna- 
tion. What  was  in  your  story  was  several  pages  of  descrip- 
tive matter  telling  what  a  despicable  character  the  fellow 
was.  I  racked  my  brain  to  discover  how  I  could,  in  a 
few  feet  of  film  in  the  early  part  of  the  story,  register  his 
character,  and  I  suddenly  hit  upon  this  episode;  for  you 
must  agree  that  anyone  who  would  deliberately  kick  a 
beautiful  sleeping  dog  was  a  despicable  bounder."  So, 
if  in  your  story  you  wish  to  record  the  fact  that  the  man 
is  a  thoughtless  brute  to  his  wife,  indicate  some  action 
that  can  be  visualized  which  will  establish  him  as  a  rotter 
without  resort  to  literary  titles.  For  instance,  if  she  in 
her  kindness  has  slaved  to  set  him  a  palatable  dish,  show 
him  pushing  it  away  from  him  in  quiet  and  cruel  con- 
tempt. Many  stories  come  in  wherein  the  plot  is  good 
but  characterizations  are  inadequate,  and  it  devolves  upon 
the  scenario  staff  to  provide  the  necessary  incidents  and 
scenes  that  will  establish  character.  A  play  might  have 
a  splendid  plot,  yet  the  scenarist  in  his  artifice,  believing 
that  heroes  are  all  good  and  villains  entirely  wicked,  will 
render  them  into  mere  morality  puppets.  So  the  scenario 
editor  may  have  to  cut  in  a  little  scene  showing  that  even 
the  hero  has  a  weakness  and  the  villain  a  touch  of  merit 

[13] 


Visualizing  a  Scenario. 

If  the  reader  is  now  impressed  with  the  necessity  of 
visualizing  a  scenario  because  of  its  ultimate  translation 
into  pictures,  let  us  approach  the  subject  of  preparing 
his  scenario  for  submission  to  a  studio.  It  is  true  that 
most  companies  prefer  that  all  script  shall  be  submitted 
in  the  form  of  synopses,  either  brief  or  detailed,  and 
adjure  writers  from  translating  their  efforts  into  conti- 
nuity form,  the  reason  being  that  most  of  the  studios  have 
their  own  methods  of  continuity  production  and  prefer 
to  translate  the  story  into  screen  language  according  to 
their  particular  intricacies.  However,  it  behooves  every 
screen  writer  to  learn  the  language  of  the  cinema  and 
be  able  to  translate  his  scenario  into  pictures.  The  writer 
of  this  lecture  having  been  for  years  an  illustrator,  is 
trained  to  think  pictorially.  Nevertheless,  he  has  found 
the  following  method  of  scenario  writing  to  be  productive 
of  the  best  results : 

He  first  writes  a  detailed  synopsis  of  his  story,  in 
which  he  establishes  his  characters,  develops  his  plot  and 
tries  to  tell  the  tale  with  fluency.  When  this  is  finished 
he  sets  out  to  write  it  in  continuity  form,  written  in  a  way 
in  which  he  expects  the  picture  to  be  shot.  But  as  he  begins 
to  visualize  the  story  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  director 
who  is  reading  his  continuity,  he  realizes  that  certain 
scenes  run  too  long;  that  collateral  action  is  necessary 
for  something  to  cut  to  in  order  to  break  this  great  length ; 
that  his  characterizations  were  developed  in  the  literary 
expression,  but  he  is  failing  to  put  it  over  on  the  screen; 
that  his  plot  is  not  building  up  properly;  and  that  the 
fundamental  psychology  of  the  story  needs  more  intelli- 
gent visualization.  Thus  he  has  arrived  at  the  end  of 
his  continuity  in  about  the  same  position  that  the  studios 
find  themselves  when  they  have  translated  the  average 
script  that  comes  to  them  into  terms  of  the  screen,  and 
which  are  so  upsetting  to  the  authors  when  they  see  their 
scenarios  projected.  Now,  however,  having  written  his 

[14] 


story  in  the  new  art  form,  he  re-writes  in  detailed  synopsis 
form  his  continuity.  And  when  he  submits  this  detailed 
synopsis  the  studios  find  that  they  can  translate  it  into 
screen  technique  without  doing  violence  to  his  story.  In 
fact,  he  has  compared  the  continuity  that  the  studios  have 
prepared  from  his  submitted  scenario  and  was  amazed  to 
see  how  close  it  was  to  the  continuity  from  which  he  wrote 
his  final  submission. 


